


“Here Today”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s December 9, 1980, Paul is holed up in his farm in Scotland, when reality hits… <i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	“Here Today”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

_December 9, 1980_

_11:45 PM_

The rain beat against the window, a steady tapping akin to the sound of stilettos making their way across a freshly polished wooden floor. The drops slowly slid down the glass, a stream of clear water marking its unsteady path. The furious gales swept the low rolling hills of Kintyre, Scotland, each gust of chilled wind leaving uprooted trees in its wake, driving the few animals scurrying for much needed, yet hard to find shelter. The inky blackness of the sky was interrupted by a flash of jagged light, a streak of lightning illuminating the sky before a loud crash of thunder sounded for the briefest second before silence swallowed up the sound. A seemingly abandoned farmhouse sat quietly among the storm, an unlikely haven for wandering and confused souls, waiting at the end of a long and winding road.

Within the small house, a lone light bulb flickered, fighting the pull of the winds outside, hoping against hope that the power lines would not be torn apart, cruelly killing its light. A fire was set in a dusty fireplace, infusing the room with a warm glow, its flames casting trembling shadows upon the walls, the translucent smoke dancing to the faint tune of the raindrops against the frosted glass of the windows. A low creaking noise was heard throughout the enclosed chamber, emanating from an old wooden rocking chair situated on the hearth. It moved back and forth listlessly, its joints slightly worn through years of use, the creaking sound the chair’s only way of complaining to those who would not hear.

The room was thrown into disarray, a bookcase laying on its side, amidst books of every kind, their spines face up, pages practically torn from the inside. Various LPs lay across the room as if someone had decided to take up the art of playing Frisbee. The covers were cracked and bent, the albums within not faring any better. An acoustic guitar lay on its side, a slight dent in the back. Fragments of glass and torn, crumpled pieces of paper were scattered across the floor.

Seated in the old groaning rocking chair was Paul McCartney, his tired body slumped gracelessly, shoulders slumped dejectedly, dark head teetering over the back, as the thick wooden edge of the chair bit into the soft flesh of his neck. His arms hung loosely at his sides, in one hand a bottle of imported beer, his fingers holding it carelessly around the neck, the bottle resting at an angle and allowing the clear amber liquid to spill on the thick rug every time the rocking chair moved. In the other hand, a lit cigarette, the ash collecting on the burning tip before falling noiselessly in a small pile.

Paul’s eyes were tightly shut, the hazel orbs hidden behind pale eyelids, the light from the fireplace caressing the veined skin. His legs were stretched out in front of him, a small wooden coffee table, the colour of honey by his feet, its surface littered haphazardly with an even greater array of half empty liquor bottles, discarded cigarette butts, and a newspaper shredded into small strips, the ink smudged throughout.

The smallest noise escaped the seemingly asleep man, a choked “Oh John,” uttered in a whimper of absolute helplessness, before the shrill sound of glass breaking shattered the semi silence. Twinkling shards from the broken bottle lay by the fireplace; the remaining beer clinging precariously to the bricks that girdled the fireplace before slowly slipping down to the ground below.

His body shaking violently, Paul rose from the chair, stumbling towards a turntable, relatively unharmed by the storm that had taken place within, his swollen eyes fixed on a single LP still sitting on a low end table in the corner of the room. Slowly he picked it up, his hands trembling as he lovingly touched the cover, his fingertips outlining the gentle rise and fall of hollowed cheeks, thin lips, a straight nose, and perfectly round glasses, all shrouded by bluish light and shadow, a thick curling of smoke obscuring his face. Carefully Paul slipped the round disc of black plastic out of its jacket, the slightly worn grooves creating slight indentations on his fingers. The record was placed on the player and the needle gently lowered, a slight scratching sound heard before the haunting melody of a piano filled the room, the chords washing over the listener like a gentle wave before an equally seductive voice flowed through the speakers.

Paul gradually slid to the floor, his legs no longer able to support his weight as intense sobs shook his body, the album cover falling carelessly to the floor. He lay on the ground, his tall frame curled into the fetal position, his head resting on bent arms.

“No, no, no. Oh God no,” the inconsolable man cried, his body continuing to tremble, heavy tears seeping through his long lashes. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be fucking dead,” he wailed as he rose on his knees, his increasingly bloodshot eyes catching sight of the fallen album cover. Lunging forward, Paul grabbed a hold of the cover as he rose drunkenly to his feet, long legs shaking underneath him, as he stood upright.

Slowly, anger began to take the place of sadness, as his eyes locked on the picture in his hands. Shakily, Paul made his was across the room, grabbing a half-empty bottle of scotch from the coffee table. He choked down the contents of the narrow mouthed jar, the clear liquid burning a fiery path down his throat as he paced around the room, his swollen eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he continued to stare at the album cover. With a half sob half snarl, Paul flung the LP jacket away from him, the light cardboard landing with a soft thud on the thick carpet in front of the fireplace as he continued to gulp down the lukewarm scotch.

“It’s just like you Lennon,” Paul yelled into the empty room, his strides getting longer and longer as he strode furiously through the chamber, coming to a stop in front of his desk as he gulped down more scotch, the alcohol fueling his angry tirade. “It’s fucking just like you to leave us like this,” he spat, “To fucking die on us when so many of us still needed you! Always letting everyone down, aren’t you John?” he cried softly, his hand resting on the back of a wooden desk chair, his head hung low, tears escaping from behind his closed eyes.

Suddenly Paul whirled around, throwing the not yet empty bottle into the fireplace, the hard liquor igniting the fire with a flash of brilliant light, the flames reaching high into the chimney, leaving a path of dull, charred bricks in its wake. “Fuck you John! Fuck you!” he screamed, his hands in fists by his side, the teardrops not yet dry on his face.

His body shaking uncontrollably, Paul lowered himself onto the high backed wooden chair, trembling hands cradling his head as he placed his pointed elbows on the desk in front of him. Heart wrenching sobs sounded throughout the room, the jagged cries of a man in anguish, his heart raw and exposed, the nerves severed and bleeding. Tears flowed from between his fingers, the salty liquid running down his pale face, ringing his swelled hazel eyes an angry red.

“Fucking hell,” he whimpered, “Why did it have to happen now? It took us so long to get back what we used to have, but again, he’s gone, and this time I can’t do anything about it.” Paul moved his hands away as he lowered his head to the desk, the rough wood grain gently scratching his forehead. “I never even got to say good bye.”

Raising his head, Paul leaned back against the chair, his head resting against the headrest, eyes closed tightly. The low light moved over his tired features, catching the dried lines that marred his skin. With a choked cry, Paul opened his eyes, the blank orbs staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. “I never even got to tell you how much I really loved you.”

Looking down at the top of the wooden desk, Paul brought his hands up, callused finger slowly sifting through piles of paper and envelopes. With every passing second, the dark-haired man grew more frenzied, his hands throwing unopened envelopes to the floor as he searched for what he needed. After a few minutes Paul found what he was looking for, a small hardcover notebook, the inside filled with his slanting scrawl. Rummaging through an open drawer, Paul pulled out a capped pen, tearing the cap off with his teeth as he opened the notebook to blank page. Setting the pen to paper, Paul stared at the wall in front of him, his teeth gnawing on the pen lid unconsciously, as a light blot of blue ink seeped into the paper and gradually grew darker and larger in diameter. With a tired sigh, Paul started to write, as the light bulb continued to flicker in the background and the fire in the fireplace bathed the room with its warm glow.

********

The sun slowly made its appearance, cautiously peaking over the horizon, its gentle radiance washing over the destruction from the night before. The azure sky was clear, the heavens cloudless with nary a thing cluttering the space above. Lonely sheep peeked out of their hideaways; the squinting dark eyes silently taking in the fallen trees and houses. The farm animals timidly came out into the open, paws and hooves stepping in the small puddles covering the ground, little splashes of water erupting under their first footfalls of the day.

Inside the small house, a door opened, the creaking of its hinges sounding especially loud in the quiet morning. A sleepy eyed blonde-haired woman peered into the study, her eyes widening as she took in the savage destruction that ravaged the room. The dying embers in the fireplace glowed darkly, the last vestiges of heat having died of a long time ago, leaving the room with a deathly chill. Slowly Linda stepped in, her feet delicately sidestepping the fallen books and albums as she made her was across the room.

Still sitting at the desk, Paul slept, his head resting in his arms, his body hunched painfully over. Linda stood behind him, her hand gently running through his dark hair as she placed a light kiss at the base of his neck. Looking down at her sleeping husband, she noticed the small black notebook propped up in front of him, the creased pages covered with his illegible scrawl, written words alternated with the scratched out lines and scribbles. The paper in some areas was slightly wrinkled, the paper having partially dried from where drops of water had fallen. Carefully so as not to wake him, Linda reached over and picked the notebook up, her eyes growing wet as she read the words Paul had written, her hand slowly coming up to cover her mouth as the tears spilled over.

_And if I say I really knew you well_   
_What would your answer be?_   
_If you were here today._   
_Here today._

_Well knowing you,_   
_You’d probably laugh and say that we were worlds apart._   
_If you were here today._   
_Here today._

_But as for me,_   
_I still remember how it was before._   
_And I am holding back the tears no more._   
_I love you._

_What about the time we met,_   
_Well I suppose that you could say that we were playing hard to get._   
_Didn’t understand a thing._   
_But we could always sing._

_What about the night we cried,_   
_Because there wasn’t any reason left to keep it all inside._   
_Never understood a word._   
_But you were always there with a smile._

_And if I say, I really loved you_   
_And was glad you came along._   
_If you were here today._   
_For you were in my song._   
_Here today._


End file.
